


où serait le mérite

by elumish



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Disorder, Jack "No Chill" Zimmerman, M/M, Professional Baker Eric Bittle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: “It’s...the Cup.”“Is not the Cup,” Tater says, pushing the phone a little closer to Jack’s face. “Is cake.”





	où serait le mérite

"You see?”

Jack leans over to look at Tater’s phone. It’s open to Twitter, on a tweet with a picture of the Stanley Cup with the caption  _ congrats to the falconers #gofalcs #stanleycup _ . It’s a bit of an odd photo: close but on some sort of pedestal, with the lighting hitting it a bit weirdly. Not a picture Jack has seen before, but it’s not as though he scours the internet for photos of the Cup.

Jack is tired--they won the Stanley Cup in triple overtime of game seven and he doesn’t think he’s slept since then--and he feels like he’s missing something. “It’s...the Cup.”

“Is not the Cup,” Tater says, pushing the phone a little closer to Jack’s face. “Is cake.”

Cake? That’s not cake.

Though now that he’s looking, Jack can see that the edges are thicker than on the real cup, the shine somewhat off. But it looks like the real Cup, down to the etchings. “Damn.”

“Yes.” Tater nods, apparently satisfied now that Jack has expressed appropriate awe at what is apparently an entire cake version of the Stanley Cup. He goes back to scrolling through Twitter, and Jack goes back to staring out the window of the close. They’re coming from New York, which is not close enough to reasonably fly. Though Jack does prefer the bus, because there’s no paparazzi and, as early as it is, most of the team is asleep.

“Is in Providence,” Tater says, and Jack startles out of a half-doze. He has that feeling like he’s falling while sitting still, and it’s almost as disconcerting to jolt out of it as to experience it.

He blinks at Tater, rubbing at his eye. “Huh?”

“The baker. Is in Providence. Bittle’s Bakes.” Tater smirks at him. “Is gay.”

Oh, Crisse. Ever since Jack came out to Tater, Tater’s been trying to set him up with every man who might ever consider a penis on potential partner to be an asset.

“Well,” Jack says, “if you’re ever looking for a date…”

Tater barks out a laugh. “I am sure Tatiana would not be happy.”

Tater and his wife are both disgustingly happy and unwaveringly monogamous, to the point where Tater has picked up puck bunnies and moved them away from him when they try grinding on him. 

Tater doesn’t say anything else about the supposedly-gay baker who lives in Providence and can apparently bake an entire fucking Stanley Cup, but when Jack wakes up with his face smashed against the window, the bus vibrating to a halt, Tater is still scrolling through the baker’s Twitter page.

\--

Jack doesn’t plan to go to the bakery. In fact, he entirely forgets about the bakery, heading almost immediately up to Montreal to spend some time with his parents and then coming back to Providence and crashing. He loves his parents, but being around them is exhausting, sometimes. They’re about as subtle as Tater about wanting him to find a nice boyfriend to come home to at the end of a roadie, and every since his overdose there’s bit that extra bit of tension, like his maman has to hold in the words ‘are you okay’ whenever she looks at him.

He can’t blame them, but still.

When he finally drags himself out of bed at 7 two days after getting back from Montreal, he ties up his offensively yellow running shoes, which started as a joke that nobody got but now he actually likes, puts on the History of WWII podcast on his phone, and starts running. 

He ends up taking a new route, which has more to do with him getting caught up in the podcast, missing where he usually turns, and ending up somewhere unexpected than any actual planned divergence. Which means that he ends up somewhere he isn’t expecting to.

Which means he ends up jogging across the street from Bittle’s Bakes.

Where the owner, or at least the baker, made a replica of the Stanley Cup and may or may not be gay.

Before Jack can think about it--or talk himself out of it--he jogs across the street to the entrance. He’s not sure if it’ll be open, considering it’s 7:25 on a Tuesday, but the lights are on and there are a few people in line.

Jack opens the door, wincing at the chime from the bell, but nobody looks at him. Which is good, because this might be a supremely stupid idea, because this is Providence and he gets recognized almost everywhere he goes.

But nobody looks at him when he gets in line, nobody screams his name or asks for an autograph or takes a picture they think is stealthy but really isn’t, and everyone seems like they care much more about getting their coffee and baked goods than about him.

Jack takes the time in line studying the menu. He decides he’ll get a black coffee, because he needs to get something or else coming in here is creepy, and most of the other drinks look somewhat horrifyingly sweet. He likes his sugar, but generally not to drink it.

The person behind the counter is a short blond man who looks like Kent but better, so so much better, and the man says, “Hello,” in the best Southern accent and then looks up at Jack’s face and  _ freezes _ .

Shit.

“Hi,” Jack says, like an idiot. He wants to add the man’s name to make his statement less idiotic--or would that be creepier, he’s not sure, what is he even doing here--but he’s not wearing a nametag.

“Oh my goodness.” The man stares at Jack, face growing redder, and then he abruptly goes pale, so suddenly that Jack almost turns around to make sure nobody is dying behind him. “I’m so sorry, how rude of me, staring like that. Welcome to Bittle’s Bakes. What can I get for you?”

“Um.” Jack has forgotten what he was going to order. He has forgotten everything except how stupid he looks when he has been running. Maybe he should leave right now. But no, that would definitely be worse. “Coffee. Black. Large.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Stanley Cup. There was a Stanley Cup out of cake.”

“Oh my goodness,” the man says again. “Of course you saw that. We don’t actually have any more--”

Jack isn’t actually expecting to eat cake. “Who made it?” And then he realizes he cut the man off, because that’s just how it’s going today, and adds, “Sorry.”

“Oh.” The man’s eyes brighten. “Me. I’m Eric, by the way. Eric Bittle, head baker and basically everything else around here.” Someone makes a protesting noise from the kitchen, and Eric turns to call, “Don’t worry, you’re helpful too, I promise.” He looks back at Jack. “Did you like the cake?”

“It was--I thought it was the real Stanley Cup, at first.”

Eric laughs. He has the best laugh. “Oh, you flatterer. Well, for that, and for your Cup win, you get whatever pastry you want, on the house. But only once. I expect you to pay, next time.”

Pastry? Jack hadn’t planned for a pastry in his diet or in this conversation. Not that he’s doing particularly well sticking with his conversation plan anyway. “I don’t--”

“A pastry,” Eric says, starting to make his coffee. “I insist.”

Jack looks briefly at the pastry case, registers almost none of the words written there, and says, “Maple,” out of the half-formed desperation that there is something there that’s maple flavored and his brain didn’t just make that up.

“A maple scone? Of course.” Eric gives in a smile that makes Jack want to smile back. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the Canadian wants something maple-flavored.” Eric laughs again. “Oh Lord, I sound like such a stalker, showing off information you never told me.”

“I’m used to it,” Jack mumbles as Eric slips the pastry into a bag and placing it onto the counter. “How much for the coffee?”

“That’s on the house, too, honey. But just this once.” Eric narrows his eyes at Jack. “I expect you to eat that scone, y’hear, and not just pass it off to some unsuspecting bystander.”

Seeing as that’s exactly what Jack was planning on doing, he can’t even argue, and instead just mumbles an, “Okay,” into his cup of coffee. The man called him honey, and Jack hasn’t felt this flustered since he met Kenny, sixteen and horny as anything.

Jack just won’t come back here, he decides, and then he takes a bite of the scone and decides that he very much will come back here, and never tell anyone about this place, because Eric Bittle might never forgive him if an entire hockey team’s worth of players descend on his bakery.

And there’s a little part of him that just wants Eric for himself, or not for himself but not shared with the rest of the team, not passed around--

Jack eats some more scone and very carefully avoids that line of thinking, because that way lies madness and the thought of Eric Bittle walking past every member of the Falcs to hand Jack the singular maple scone, dressed only in an apron, pressed up against the wall of the locker room--

\--

Jack waits an appropriate month before returning to the bakery so he doesn’t seem too creepy. During that time he looks up Eric Bittle and leans that, not only does he run the best bakery in Providence, he is a former figure skater who represented the US at the Olympics. Jack has a vague member of that, remembers an Eric Bittle coming in fifth, but it’s a struggle to connect the man in the sparkly costume skating to Beyonce to the man serving scones in Providence.

That Olympics was also during a high-anxiety time, and so his memory from them is all tangled up, scattered images of buses and walls and games.

He ends up watching Youtube videos of Eric skating during the time he would usually spend watching WWII documentaries, watches every video he can find before deciding watching interview videos would just cross the line into too creepy.

He realizes he has no idea how the figure skating season works partway through the process when in one video they’re talking about Eric taking gold at US nationals and the next they’re wondering how he’ll do and he has to backtrack to figure out what he missed. It seems odd to him, only one person skating on the ice. Lonely. But he has to admit that Eric is an amazing skater, fast as anything.

He wonders who would win a race between the two of them.

It takes him almost a week after deciding to go back to the bakery to actually work up the nerves to go there. It’s the off season and so he doesn’t feel as bad about actually taking a cheat day. He checks what time it opens and then jogs past it three mornings in a row before he gets himself to push open the door and walk in.

There are a couple of people in front of him in line, including a mother with a baby in a rear-facing stroller that Jack gets to make faces at until the mother is done ordering and Jack is left staring at Eric Bittle, who is beaming at him.

Jack’s mouth goes dry, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “You skate. Skated.”

Eric’s eyes widen, and Jack realizes just how unbelievably creepy and invasive that sounds. He’s about to apologize and leave and never come back when Eric says, “I do. Skate, I mean.”

“You were very good. In the...Worlds, your last Worlds, you were very good.”

Eric’s face lights up. “Thank you. I’ll admit, I had something to prove, after the Olympics.” The bell chimes as the mother leaves, and Eric startles. “Oh. What would you like to order?”

Jack hadn’t thought that far. “Um. Do you have any more maple scones?”

“Sorry, honey, not today.”

Crap. There goes Jack’s half a plan. “Okay.”

Eric stares at him for a moment, probably intuiting just how much of a failure Jack is at human interaction, then asks, “What flavors do you like?”

Jack has food that he likes, he knows he does, but at the moment he couldn’t name a single one of them to save his life. “Um.”

“Apple?” Eric prompts. “Cherry? Blueberry? Ignore that I said blueberry.”

Jack will do almost anything Eric tells him to do, if Eric keeps talking to him in that accent. And calling him honey. Even though it doesn’t mean anything, Jack knows it doesn’t mean anything, he does understand that much about how people work, but it’s still.

Honey.

It’s only when Eric’s expression changes that Jack realizes he said that aloud, because apparently the part that separates his brain words from his mouth words has gone on sabbatical, and Jack clenches his jaw shut to make sure none of the rest of the things he’s thinking come out along with that.

After an excruciating pause that is probably no longer than a few seconds but feels like long enough for Jack to have run home and then maybe thrown himself into the sun, Eric says, slow as molasses, “I’m afraid we don’t have anything honey flavored right now, though if you let me know when you’re going to come back I can whip something up for you for next time.”

Jack doesn’t know if he’s ever intentionally eaten something honey flavored in his life, but there’s no way he’s going to admit that now, not when Eric is going to make something just for him, so he just nods.

“Well,” Eric says, “if you won’t tell me what flavor you want that I can actually give you, why don’t you get one of my apple-walnut muffins. Unless you’re allergic to nuts, of course. Or apples.”

Jack would stuff poison ivy in his mouth if Eric baked it in a muffin and gave it to him. He shakes his head. But that might seem like he’s rejecting the muffin, so then he nods. But that might imply he’s allergic, so he says, “Muffin. Please. Yes. And coffee?” he adds plaintively.

Eric beams at him. “Of course. Black?”

“Please.”

By the time Eric gets him his coffee and muffin, Jack has managed to wrestle some denomination of dollars out of his wallet to hand to Eric, because he’s paying this time, and Eric takes it and gives him change back, which means it must have been an appropriate denomination, and then Jack has to get the change away but he doesn’t want to stand there fumbling with his wallet, so he just shoves the whole wad of cash in the tip jar because that’s easier.

“Um,” Eric says. “You just gave me a $16 tip.”

“Okay,” Jack says, and he kind of wants to stop existing, so he grabs his muffin and the cup of coffee and leaves.

\--

Jack plans to never darken Eric’s doorstep again because he is a failure of a human being and also is pretty certain the next time he sees Eric the first thing that comes out of his mouth will be an offer for a blowjob, and that plan is working pretty well until Jack runs into him in the cereal aisle of the grocery store at 8pm on a Sunday, at which point Jack promptly drops a family size box of the world’s grossest sugar-based cereal that he had been examining the nutrition facts of out of sheer horrified curiosity.

“Oh, Lord,” Eric says next to him, reaching down to pick up the box at the same time Jack reaches down to pick it up, and their hands touch, and Jack drops the box again. He considers fleeing the aisle and maybe the country. “I can’t believe your nutritionists would approve this.”

Jack laughs, and then he promptly clamps his hand over his mouth, because that was  _ loud _ . “It’s not, um.” He’s not ready to talk to Eric. He didn’t prepare for this. “I wasn’t planning on buying it.”

“I should hope not.” And then Eric looks at him in what looks like horror, saying, “Not that I have any right to tell you what you should be eating. But if you’re going to go with something like this, at least pick the one with the unicorns included.”

“I think I’m gay enough without eating any unicorns,” Jack says without thinking, and then he starts thinking, and okay, that was bad, that was not good, he is not good, he just outed himself to a virtual fucking stranger in the middle of a grocery store and that is so far on the range of not good, it is only about a step above actually offering him a blowjob, maybe Jack can go back to Canada and never leave his room in his parents’ house again.

But Eric just reaches up and touches Jack’s cheek with his hand and says, “Oh, honey, I’m not going to out you to anyone, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I. Um.” Eric is touching him, Eric’s hand is touching his, and it’s cool and smaller than Jack was expecting as has more calluses than he’d thought, and he closes his eyes and breathes and goes through the grounding techniques one of his therapists taught him, counting three things he can feel, four things he can hear, and by the time he opens his eyes to count five things that he can see, he’s mostly breathing again. “Sorry. Shit. Sorry.”

Eric smiles at him, so bright and open under the glaring lights of the luminescent bulbs. “It’s okay. I cried the first time I came out to someone. And I know you might not believe me, but I promise I won’t out you to anyone. I--”

“Will you go out with me? On a date?”

Eric’s expression shuts down, and he takes a step back, his hand pulling away from Jack’s cheek. Fuck. Shit. Jack fucked up. He’s not sure how, but he fucked up. He always fucks up. “You don’t need to ask me out to keep me from outing you.”

“That’s not--”

Eric picks up his basket from the floor, jamming the box into Jack’s chest with his other hand. And then, without another word, he turns and stalks away, leaving Jack fumbling to keep from dropping or crushing the impractically large box.

Fuck.

\--

Now Jack actually wants to see Eric again, because he wants to explain what he meant, and so of course this is the time when someone other than Eric is behind the counter when Jack shows up. It's a guy, maybe twenty or so, who looks like he wants to glare Jack out of the shop but also wants to ask for his autograph.

“Um,” Jack says.

“No,” the person says.

\--

Jack skates, and he works out and he skates and he eats, and he mostly makes himself not worry about the fact that he fucked up with the only person he's been attracted to since Parse, and the stupidest thing is that when he's lying in bed thinking about that conversation over and over and over the thing that bothers him the most is that fact that he called himself gay when he's actually bi, and that if Eric does out him then he's going to be known as being gay when he's not.

But Eric doesn't out him, and Jack doesn't go back to the bakery, and he's okay with it, mostly, he thinks, though it would be easier to be okay with it if it was during the season and he could go from game to game hovering just above that constant haze of exhaustion.

He thinks vaguely about trying to fix it, but he’s not even sure what he could have done differently, exactly, what specific point at which he fucked things up. Coming out? Coming out the way he did? Asking Eric out? Picking up that specific box of cereal? Going grocery shopping? Being born?

It’s a bad spiral, so he tries not to do it, not when he can help it, because his therapist has talked to him about breaking out of bad spirals before they can turn into something he can’t fight his way out of, because he doesn’t keep meds in his place because he knows it’s not safe for him to have it somewhere he can access it without anyone around to make sure he doesn’t take too much.

He thinks sometimes that he should find somebody to live with him, but he doesn’t want to live with someone from the team because he needs...not-hockey space, but he also doesn’t have anyone else he wants to live with, not who’s around, and so it’s more of a vague, general thought that sits there on bad nights when he stares at the shadowed off-white of the ceiling and pretends that he’s trying to sleep.

It’s not the reason he wants a relationship, particularly; things are easier when he’s not in a romantic relationship, in terms of sharing a space with someone. But he likes physical contact, likes something that goes beyond the casual, rough touch of hockey. He wants something softer, wants that needly frantic feeling where all you can think about is getting your hands on another person’s skin, where that voice that’s always there somewhere in the base of his skull and also just beside his right temple gets drowned out by  _ heat heat heat _ .

He’d really like a blowjob.

\--

He’s at a Falcs PR event skating with little kids--a combination of the execs’ kids and kids who won some sort of raffle--when he sees Eric again, helping lace up the skates of a little girl.

He’s saying something to the kid, smiling as he ruffles her hair, and it’s so distracting Jack almost skates into a six-year old, because shit, shit, shit, he’s cute, Jack is so fucked.

“Ah,” Tater says, spraying Jack’s ankles with ice as he stops next to him. “The baker. You see?”

“Yeah, I, uh--we met.”

“Cute, yes?”

“Tater, now is not the time.”

“Is always the time for cute boy,” Tater says, throwing an arm around Jack’s shoulder. Before Jack can shove him away, a little kid totters up, and Tater beams at him, crouching down so he can offer him a hand. “How is skating, small man?”

The kid answers by falling over, and Tater picks him up, standing with him to skate off with him. The kid shrieks excitedly, and Jack can’t help but smile. He goddamn loves kids.

A few more kids are getting on the ice, including Eric’s little girl, and Jack skates over to them, offering out a hand. The girl grins up at him, then steps on to the ice and skates a literal circle around him, ending up in front of with a pretty impressive hockey stop.

“Wow,” Jack says, genuinely impressed. “That’s some nice skating.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Daddy and Uncle Bitty taught me. Uncle Bitty wishes I would use figure skates, but I can’t play hockey in figure skates. You’re not as big as Daddy.”

“Sorry,” Jack says, though he’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for.

“Daddy played goalie in college. He roots for the Sharks, but I like the Falconers because Mr. Tater is really big.”

“Do you want to meet Tater?” 

“Yes, please,” the girl says, and then she holds out a hand to him, and Jack reaches down and takes her hand and skates her over to Tater.

Tater has two kids hanging off of him, and another one clinging on to his ankle, but his face breaks out into just as large a smile as always when he sees Jack skating over with the girl. “You have made friend, Zimmboni.”

“She’s a better skater than you are,” Jack tells him, handing her over to Tater.

“Faster, too,” the girls says, apparently not even a little fazed by the praise.

Tater booms out a laugh. “We will have to race. You bring good friend, Zimbonni. Good small friend.”

\--

Eric is still there when they all get off the ice, Jack with a kid clinging on to each hand, an exec’s kid and a raffle kid chatting excitedly at each other in a language Jack’s only fairly certain is actually English. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, but as soon as the girl sits down next to him he looks up, smiling at her. 

And then he meets Jack’s eyes, and the smile freezes on his face, and he looks at the girl and asks, “Pumpkin, can you unlace your skates on your own?”

“‘m not a pumpkin,” she protests, but starts unlacing her skates anyway with deft fingers.

Eric ruffles her short hair again, then stands and walks over to Jack, who stands there like a tall, looming, unwieldy idiot. Eric looks uncomfortable, but the expression softens a bit from something he sees on Jack’s face, and he says, “Hey, Jack.”

“It had nothing to do with thinking you would out me,” Jack says, instead of all of the millions of things he should have said, like literally anything that didn’t mention outing and him in the same sentence in a room full of everyone who his career depends on.

Something shifts in Eric’s expression, behind his eyes, like he’s reevaluating something or considering something or maybe just confused, and then he says, “Oh, sweetheart.”

Jack’s entire everything heats up, and he shifts his weight nervously, like that’ll make it less obvious that he’s bright fucking red. “I didn’t--that doesn’t mean you have any obligation to say yes or anything, or to--I mean, you made it pretty clear that you’re not--I’m not expecting anything from you. I just wanted to explain. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing, hon? Not your fault I took it the wrong way. But I, um--”

“ _ UNCLE BITTY _ !”

Eric winces, then turns around to call, “Please stop shouting, pumpkin,” back at the little girl. Then, almost hesitantly, he looks at Jack again, hands shoved in his pockets. “I have to go, but, um, can you--can you come to the bakery, tomorrow? If you’re free? I’d like to have this conversation, if you’re up for it, but maybe here isn’t the best place to do it.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, without thinking about his schedule, or any of the things he might have to do, or about the fact that he’s scared shitless of having whatever conversation Eric wants to have with him. “Tomorrow.”

\--

Jack has a panic attack that night, and another one the next morning, and it’s...not okay, exactly, but he calls Parse and says, “I think I’m going to die,” and Parse says, “If you do I’ll bring you back just to murder you, and then Parse says, “Whatever it is can’t be worse than the draft and I kept you alive through that, didn’t I, so whatever it is, you’ll be fine.”

“Have you ever thought about coming out?” Jack asks when the pressure on his chest and inside his brain eases to something a little less catastrophic. “Just saying fuck it and tweeting a picture of you and some twink in bed together?”

“I would put it on Instagram, thank you very much, because I’m classy that way.” But then Parse’s voice sobers a little bit as he says, “Yeah, Zimms, I’ve thought about it. But I don’t--I don’t have anyone to come out for, and coming out just for myself doesn’t seem worth the effort. You know how it is. Maybe if someone else came out, but--”

“What if I did?” Jack blurts out.

Parse is silent for a moment, and then, in a careful voice, he asks, “Is that what you’re freaking out about? Are you planning on coming out?”

“Not now, not yet, but...there’s someone, maybe. That might make it worth it.”

“I’m glad,” Parse says, and he sounds it, genuinely, and Jack smiles.

\--

Jack spends so long trying to figure out what to wear that he’s nearly late to his arbitrary self-decided time for getting to the bakery, which makes him even more anxious, and he’s shaking like a goddamn maple leaf by the time he gets to the door of the bakery. So he walks himself through a breathing exercise while standing against a wall that can’t be seen from inside, and then he heads back around to enter the bakery.

The same guy from before is behind the counter, and Jack is nearly crushed by a wave of disappointment that Eric isn’t there. But the guy smiles this time, and says, “He’ll be out in a sec. I’m Chowder, by the way. Sorry about...you know, last time.”

“It’s okay.” Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, because he’s not sure what to do with them, and then Eric walks out from the back and he yanks his hands out again, which accomplishes nothing other than him looking stupid. “Eric. Hi.”

Eric is dressed in a pastel button-down shirt with a vest and polka-dot bowtie, and he looks so fucking amazing that all of the spit in Jack’s mouth dries up and the most he can manage is some vague staring. 

“Chowder, honey, why don’t you go check on the muffins?”

The man walks to the back, and once he’s gone, Jack manages to blurt out, “Is his name really Chowder?”

“A hockey nickname, from college.”

“Oh.” Jack tries to swallow. “The girl, she’s--”

“Chowder’s. Her mom had an appointment, so I said I’d bring her after she won that raffle.” Eric steps around the counter to approach Jack, stopping a few feet away from him. The bakery is empty, for once. Jack has no idea why. He doesn’t really care. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Why do you--” Jack waves a hand, awkwardly, then shoves it back in a pocket, which isn’t better, so he takes it out of his pocket again, which also isn’t better. “Call me that?”

Eric’s cheeks turn a delightful pink. “It’s a Southern thing. But also, I...want to.” He takes another step towards Jack. “That conversation we had in the grocery story, I’d like to have that again, but...better, this time.”

“I’m bi,” Jack blurts out, because it’s been bothering him to be out the wrong way. “Not gay. If that, um. Matters.”

“Oh, hon, why would that matter? But thank you for telling me. For trusting me with that.”

Jack nods. “And I want to go out with you, but not--not because I’m afraid of you outing me.”

Eric’s face falls a little. “I’m really sorry I said that, last time. I just...well, honestly, I couldn’t think of why you would actually want to go out with me, other than that.”

“You’re--you’re you, you’re gorgeous and skate well and and your muffins are really good and you’re good with kids, and I--yeah. That’s why, mostly.”

“Oh.” Eric’s face is bright red now, and he’s staring at Jack, but he hasn’t  _ said _ anything, he hasn’t said he’ll go out with Jack, and Jack isn’t actually sure if he will but he has a sinking feeling that he won’t, that he’s flattered because of who Jack is or whatever but isn’t actually interested, and that’s okay, he’s allowed to say no, he doesn’t owe Jack anything, nobody owes Jack their time just as Jack doesn’t owe anybody his time, he just--

“Will you just, um.” Jack sounds hoarser than he would have liked. “One way. Or another.”

“I-- _ oh _ .” Eric’s eyes widen, and then he steps up until he’s right there, nearly touching Jack, head tilted up to look him in the eye. “Yes, Jack, of course. Of course I’ll go out with you.” Standing up on his toes, one hand a point of heat on Jack’s chest, he presses his lips to Jack’s.

The knowledge that they’re basically in public drops away, and Jack leans down, cupping the back of Eric’s head and deepening the kiss. Eric’s mouth is soft and warm and tastes of sugar and cinnamon, and  _ Crisse _ , Jack could be here forever, just kissing him.

Or until Eric jerks away, eyes wide, to say, “Honey cakes! I need to give you the honey cakes!”

Jack laughs until his sides ache and he can’t breathe, and he’s never felt so good.

**Author's Note:**

> As I see it, this exists in a world where Eric never moved to Madison and so kept on figure skating, and Kent Parson found Jack before he managed to OD on the night before the draft and saved him from that.


End file.
